


All The Things You Are

by LydianNode



Series: The American Songbook [2]
Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Aftermath of sex, Fluff, M/M, No discernible plot, POV First Person, a year in the life, jimercury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-28
Updated: 2019-08-28
Packaged: 2020-09-28 20:34:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20432039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LydianNode/pseuds/LydianNode
Summary: A year in the life of Jim Hutton, told through song and glimpses into his relationship with Freddie Mercury.In for a penny, in for a pound. I put my hands at his waist—so slim and supple, my God, how is he even real?—and lean in for a kiss.





	All The Things You Are

**Author's Note:**

> This is plot-free fluff because I love Freddie and Jim so very much. Apart from Roger's comment to Jim in Barcelona during the Magic Tour, the rest of this story is very much imaginary.
> 
> The title comes from the gorgeous song by Jerome Kern and Oscar Hammerstein II.

10 January, 1986, London

_You are the promised kiss of springtime  
That makes the lonely winter seem long._

He makes me shiver.

Yes, it's the dead of winter. Yes, London's air is almost too frosty to breathe. But that's not what shakes me from head to toe. It isn't what takes the very air out of my lungs.

Freddie does all of that.

We're walking side by side around the grounds of Garden Lodge. It's bare right now but it will certainly come alive in the warmer months. Freddie keeps pointing out the patches he wants torn out and replanted. "Yellow," he says, vapour coming out of his mouth in tendrils. "Sunflowers, here, I think. They'll cheer things up."

I can imagine a field of them, with Freddie standing in the centre with his arms spread wide. I can imagine myself running toward him, just as in the old movies, and his arms going around me.

The mental image is so real, so tempting, that it makes me shiver.

Freddie stops walking and looks at me, dark eyes narrowing in concern. "Jim, darling, should we go back in the house?"

It won't help.  
You're what makes me shiver.  
It's not cold, it's delight.  
  
I can't give voice to any of those thoughts, so I just steel myself and shake my head. "It's fine. Show me where you want to expand the rose garden."

My teeth, those traitors, chatter as I speak, causing Freddie's expression to turn from concern to fear. He pulls off his jacket and tries to get my arms into sleeves far too slim for me. Of course it doesn't work, and his brow furrows. He settles for draping it over my shoulders. His warmth seeps into me and his fragrance surrounds me. Too much, too much. I sway a little on my feet and he puts his hands against my chest.

In for a penny, in for a pound. I put my hands at his waist—so slim and supple, my God, how is he even real?—and lean in for a kiss.

It's a light touch, the feel of his mouth against my own. Even when he parts his lips to let me in, he's so careful not to graze my tongue with his teeth, so careful to keep the seal light enough for me to catch a breath.

"There," Freddie says proudly when the kiss ends. "I've warmed you up."

The sunflowers will brighten the gloomy landscape, but it will take ever so long. His kiss has made me impatient for the warmth of spring, the vision of new life returning to the barren land, the assurance that two souls will entwine like vines.

Freddie clings to me, his misty breath in my ear. His lips press eagerly against my cheek. "Darling Jim," he murmurs into my skin, into my essence.

Suddenly it feels like spring.

***

30 May, 1986, London_  
_

_You are the breathless hush of evening_  
_That trembles on the brink of a lovely song._

As the Queen tour gets closer, Freddie starts bringing the other band members over to Garden Lodge to work on this and that.

He sings John's songs for him, to him, and lets John shape them. I've heard John's voice as he outlines something for Freddie. It's not as bad as he claims, but I can understand why he hesitates to sing along with the other three. Besides, if I could write a song, there's no one else in the world I'd want to sing it.

Roger always enters loudly, always greets everyone by name, always brings a bottle and nibbles. I'm never sure what he and Freddie actually do, musically—there's more giggling than singing going on—but Freddie's mood is always lighter after Roger visits.

Tonight Brian is at the house, acoustic guitar in hand. He tunes as Freddie plays notes at the piano, grumbling mildly. "The D's a bit sharp."

"I'll have the tuner in this week," promises Freddie.

I hover in the doorway, out of their line of sight. Freddie's back is ramrod-straight, his hands hovering silently above the keys as if prompting Brian to get on with the tuning so they can play.

Brian nods at Freddie. His fingers are in stark contrast to the black fretboard, pale and absurdly long. I haven't listened to much of Brian's work, since electric guitar isn't my style, but since Freddie insists that he's "simply the BEST in the world" I decide to pay attention tonight.

Freddie gets off of the piano bench and stands to Brian's left. At first there's nothing in the air, but then Brian's fingers start to move and suddenly beauty is spinning all around me.

"Love of my life, you've hurt me.  
You've broken my heart and now you leave me..."

I've heard Freddie in the music room and the shower, on the telly and on records, never like this. His voice is unearthly, precious, flawless. It weaves itself into the silvery guitar notes until they're almost a single entity. Brian smiles, half to himself and half to Freddie, and pulls exquisite sounds out of the instrument he holds next to his heart.

I can't keep a little hitch of breath from escaping me, and Freddie turns to me with soft, gentle eyes.

"When I grow older,  
I will be there at your side to remind you,  
I still love you."

Oh.

Now I really am breathless.

***

1 August, 1986, Barcelona_  
_

_You are the angel glow that lights a star.  
The dearest things I know are what you are._

Freddie's eyes are half-open, lashes fluttering, glittering with reflected moonlight and fulfilment.

I'm not quite ready to divide us, so I manage to keep my weight off of him as we come down from the high of orgasm. We're both panting—me more so than Fred, since he's in "fighting trim" for the concert tour and I could stand to lose a stone—and we never take our eyes off of one another.

He seems content, smiling shyly up at me as he lifts his head for a kiss.

_"Well, Freddie's different this year_," Roger had said to me over dinner. "_What have you done to him?"_

"I love you, Freddie."

_"He's stopped trawling the gay venues after the concerts, and he's not burning the candle at both ends."  
_

"Love you, Jim, darling," he murmurs against my lips.

If this is what I've done to him, then I'll keep doing it, God willing.

We're both a little sore when I pull out. Freddie is good at masking his pain, mental and physical alike, but the little telltale signs are there. It's a pleasure to soothe him, to clean him up and massage the tense muscles of his thighs. Our room has air-conditioning but sweat glistens along every inch of his beautiful dark-gold skin. I pat him dry with the edge of the duvet. Yes, I pause now and then to kiss his hip, his waist, his collarbone. Who could blame me?

"You're glowing," I tell him as I snuggle down next to him.

"It's the starlight, dear," he whispers, gesturing with a graceful hand at the open curtains.

"Nope." I've only just settled down when he drapes himself over me, clinging and tender and precious. "I'm not glowing, Freddie. It's just you."

"Mmm." He decorates my throat with tiny kisses. He's warm and pliant in my arms, my supple Faery King. "Do you love me?" he asks in a voice that's the polar opposite of the brash one he used onstage earlier in the evening.

"I just said I did," I remind him, not bothering to stifle the exhausted yawn that overtakes me after the first word.  
  
"Will you say it again?" When he peeks up at me I can see tears pooling in his exquisite eyes.

I can't bear to see him unhappy, not for a moment, so I cradle his face in my hands and use my thumb to capture the one tear that's begun its escape. "Oh, my precious boy. Yes, I love you. I love you so much."

He makes a happy little noise, but he still looks frightened that I'll change my mind. I kiss him everywhere I can reach: eyelids, tip of the nose, dimple, lips. And in between those kisses I tell him over and over, "I love you, Freddie Mercury."

Eventually the tension in his limbs begins to wash away and he lies still, breathing softly. He might think that the stars have lit him up, but in my heart it's the other way around.

***

25 December, 1986, London_  
_

_Some day my happy arms will hold you,_  
_And some day I'll know that moment divine_  
_ When all the things you are, are mine._

There have been parties all throughout the season, but this one may be my favourite.

It's not for the stars in Freddie's orbit, nor for the small army it takes to run the Queen Empire. Tonight the guests are many and varied, from all over the globe and all walks of life. Freddie spent hours with Phoebe, poring over the guest list, choosing food and spirits, and even more hours with me to sort decorations and Christmas trees—multiple, at least one in every room—and wrapping a mountain of presents.

_But you're not Christian, are you?" I had asked him, overwhelmed by the enormity of the seasonal preparations, and he had laughed as he snaked his arms around my neck and kissed me.  
_

_"I'm not Christian, dear, but I'm certainly grateful to the religion for giving me the opportunity to throw a party and go shopping until I simply cannot set foot in one more store."_  
  
It also gives him the opportunity to bestow his generosity on everyone fortunate enough to know him, but of course he'd never say that about himself.

Freddie has told me dozens of times that I'm a guest, not a worker, but I still head to the foyer when I hear the door open.

"Jim! Happy Christmas!" Brian is stood there with little Louisa in his arms and Jimmy balancing a stack of gifts nearly as tall as he is. "Thank you for having us tonight, and Chrissie sends her love and apologies—"

"Oh, no need for apologies! Happy Christmas to you, too!" Chrissie, pregnant with their third child, hadn't felt well enough to go out to the "official" Queen gathering, so Freddie insisted that Brian bring the children to this party instead. "Freddie's been going mad the last few days because—"  
  
"THERE you are, my dears!" Freddie interrupts, accidentally baptising Brian with a splash of champagne as he rushes up for a hug. "Louisa, you absolute BEAUTY, would you favour your Uncle Freddie with a kiss?"

Giggling, Louisa gives Freddie a not-entirely-dry smack on the cheek but Freddie just beams under her attention. "I'm sorry that poor Chrissie is still under the weather. Joe's done up some nice calming dishes for her tummy, and of course you'll take her presents home to her as well." Freddie leans over to whisper conspiratorially into Jimmy's ear. "And since you two couldn't be here with the other children, it's possible that a few extra gifts found their way under the tree to make it up to you."

As Jimmy's mouth forms an exaggerated "O" shape, Brian shakes his head. "You're going to spoil them," he mutters, trying to look stern, but his eyes are sparkling with amusement.

"That's what I live for, Brimi." Someone comes up and takes Freddie's arm, leading him away to another part of the room and another conversation. "Oops, do excuse me—children, Uncle Phoebe's in the kitchen with some special treats for you!"  
  
Jimmy looks to his father for permission, which is granted with a smile and a chuckle as Louisa takes her brother's hand and they toddle off to the sugary fairyland Joe has set aside for them.

I grab a champagne glass for Brian and one for myself. He's never really at ease with large groups of strangers, but he's obviously enjoying the festive sights around him. "I've always heard about the party Freddie throws for 'his strays,' but this is the first one I've seen. It's quite a production."

"It really is. Truth be told, I'm a bit surprised it came off, but Freddie got stuck in and managed everything."

Brian gestures to the mountain of gaily wrapped packages under the biggest tree. "He's always so proud that everyone brings a gift and everyone gets two in return. He's always given so much more than he's received." He smiles wistfully as he puts a strong hand on my shoulder and squeezes. "Take care of our boy the way he deserves; God knows he's waited long enough."

I sigh. I've been trying so hard, but there's always this bit of distance we can't quite close. "If he'd just let me—"

"Oh, you can't wait for him to let you. You'll have to barge right in and cherish him. Against his will, if you must."

I'm mulling this over, watching Freddie throw his arms around a handsome young man I don't know. I must be making a face, because Brian leans in to talk quietly to me.

"He lost his last relative, his mum, last year. Freddie said to him, 'I'll be your mother from now on.' That's Fred in a nutshell." He takes a long sip of his drink. "You'd have to be certifiable to let him get away from you."

I blink as I look up at him. He smiles kindly, gesturing toward Freddie with his glass. "You're giving me your blessing?" I ask. Oh, God, I sound lame.

"I'm not giving you my blessing. I'm TELLING you, mate, get out there and adore this man because he loves you more than you realise."  
  
He's serious.

The room's focus narrows to just Freddie in his silly red jumper and holly wreath. Just Freddie and the little family he's brought together to celebrate a holiday that's not even his. Just Freddie, who might, who just MIGHT, let me hold him in my heart.

I can't even feel my legs when I walk over to him and slip my hand into his. Freddie turns to me, dark eyes aglow.

"Oh, my love, you've found me," he whispers. I glance at Brian, who lifts his glass to us in a silent toast.

"Yes. Yes, I've found you," I respond, and when I wrap him in my arms I know I'll never have to let go. 

**Author's Note:**

> It's been a struggle to write, these days, even a little fluffy marshmallow like this story. The deluge of hate messages on Tumblr every time I post has worn me down. But, "Yes, I'll keep on trying," just as Freddie sang.


End file.
